This Week in WTF: All Guthrie, All the Time

I didn't get a chance to link to my WTF column last Thursday, because I was in Houston when it went live. (I know, I know... where's the Houston post, right? What can I say? A rare experience like "Noir Night" is like fine wine. It needs to ferment in my brain for a while before it's ready to share with the world. Besides, I need to clear a few things with my lawyer first.)

But it makes to sense to post both last week's installment along with the new one, because they both feature Al "Sunshine" Guthrie. (I know, I know, what's with the constant Guthrie news? What can I say? A rare experience like Al Guthrie visiting Philadelphia is like fine wine, meant to be chugged through a straw behind a 7-11 constantly and relentlessly...)

So anyway, here's part 1, from last week's issue: "150 Bullets," starring Sunshine and a lot of shell casings.

And part 2, from today's issue: "Not From Around Here," starring Sunshine and the David Goodis house.

Parker Turns Three

Three years ago today, at this very minute, everything changed.

On March 30, 2002, at 10:51 a.m., Parker Lennon Swierczynski entered this dimension, literally kicking and screaming. He's named for three of my heroes: Richard Stark's Parker, Peter Parker (a.k.a. The Amazing Spider-Man) and an obscure singer/guitarist named John Lennon. And the Boy has certainly lived up to his namesakes. He's sharp, fearless, strong, and has this weird fondness for Asian performance artists.

Anyway... I say everything changed because after Parker was born, the concept of "sleeping in" forever disappeared. That first night, in fact, Parker gave us a run for our money, yelling pretty much every hour, on the hour, just to let us know he was still around. Many sleepless nights followed, and during that time, the Bride and I started looking like extras in a George Romero movie.

They say parenting is about trade-offs. And sure, we lost a lot of sleep. Still do.

But every morning, we get to say hello to coolest little boy on the planet.

That's not a bad deal at all.

Happy Birthday, Parker. (Sorry, my son. You'll have to put up with these kinds of messages until you get your own blog. Which, knowing you, will probably be next month.)

Funny, You Don't Look Irish

It's official: I'll be joining Mr. Ray Banks in the Ken Bruen-edited Dublin Noir anthology, due to be published by Akashic Books in spring 2006.

And while "Swierczynski" isn't exactly the most Oirish name on the planet, I do feel a special connection to the Land of Guinness . My wife and kids have Irish blood running through their veins, and my first name is actually Celtic for "on the downs." So take that.

My story is called "Lonely and Gone," and I like to think of it as my homage to Cornell Woolrich. (Whose most popular pseudonym was "William Irish," by the way.)

Prone Alone

Once again, I have Al "Sunshine" Guthrie to blame for another obsession. One of my new favorite authors, based on the strength of one short book? Jean-Patrick Manchette, author of The Prone Gunman, a 1981 existential hitman novel that's lean, mean, fast-paced and absolutely brilliant.



We were nosing around the foreign crime novels section of Murder By the Book when Al pointed Gunman out to me. "Ken sent me a copy, and it was superb." I plucked it off the shelf, but saw that the last few pages were a bit mangled. That was a turn-off... I have a weird thing about books being in pristine shape when I buy them. (Used titles are another story.) I explained this to Al, then put it back on the shelf.

"Don't be a tosser," he said.

Al had a point. I picked it up again, bought it, and now I'm thanking the Noir Gods I did. Read most of it in Houston, then finished it here back in Philadelphia. It was, to borrow a phrase popular in the offices of the City Paper, the tits. More action than The Borne Identity, more hitman angst than Grosse Point Blank (which must have lifted its plot straight from this book... let's get real), and with more hairpin turns than a Jeffrey Deaver novel... this compact little shocker has landed on my Top 10 list of favorite novels.

The absolute bitch, of course, is that Manchette published 11 noir novels during the 1970s, and only two have been translated into English. (I've just ordered the other, 3 to Kill, from Amazon.com.) I either have to wait, or learn to read French.

Thanks, Sunshine. Thanks a lot.

A Glimpse at The Wheelman

The St. Martin's Minotaur Fall 2005 catalog just came out, and yep, there's a page for The Wheelman in there. Which means I'm not imagining things.

Well, actually, it doesn't prove anything. Because I could be imagining this catalog. As well as my entire life.

But don't let my delusions stop you from downloading the pdf version of the catalog. You'll find The Wheelman just a few pages into the October section.

The cover art isn't final; last I heard, there was going to be an actual "wheelman" shown. (He's being illustrated.) But it's pretty damned sweet as is.

Secret Dead Blog Interview: Allan Guthrie

Sitting right here, in this very room, is Edinburgh’s dark prince of noir, Allan Guthrie. He’s eating strawberry yogurt and watching Law & Order: SVU. Marlo Thomas is making a guest appearance on the show, and Al has just asked: “Is that a man?”

Al has no idea I’m writing this. In fact, I’m just about to tell him that he has to put down the yogurt and answer a few questions.

I’m not sure he’s going to be entirely pleased. But then again, Al doesn’t ever seem entirely pleased about anything.

Secret Dead Blog: Al, thanks for joining us. My first question: You ate quite a bit of that yogurt without realizing that the strawberries were at the bottom, and that you were supposed to mix it first. What’s the deal?

Allan Guthrie: I’m from Scotland.

SDB: That’s no excuse. Didn’t you realize that the yogurt tasted awfully bland for something labelled “strawberry”? I think this says much more about you than you think.

AG: Actually, I was enjoying it. I was looking forward to getting to the fruit, eventually. Of course, there was never any guarantee that I’d get there. But that just added a welcome edge to the whole experience. Although, as always, I was constantly aware that the hope’s the thing that can kill you. Know what I mean?

SDB: That’s so you. Okay. You’re finishing up your yogurt, so let’s move on. We just returned from “Noir Night” at Houston’s Murder By the Book. Our fellow panelists were Ken Bruen, Jason Starr and J.D. “Dusty” Rhoades. Give me some dirt about each of them.

AG: They’re all clean-living guys, like most of us noir writers, so unfortunately I’m unable to answer your question. I can, however, offer up some dirt on the night’s other panelist. If you want me to. Just say the word and I’ll be happy to talk about Duane Swierczynski, babe magnet. The hot bachelor pad with the mattress on the floor. And that glass brick partition seperating the kitchen and shower. Never fails. Genius.

SDB: I hasten to add that this “hot bachelor pad” wasn’t in Houston. I wouldn’t want people to think we were watching Jason shampoo his long, flowing hair, or something.

AG: We’d be so lucky. Of course, I meant back in the day, when the young Swierczynski was sexually active.

SDB: You made quite the impression on the Houston audience with your definition of “hardboiled vs. noir” fiction. Care to share it with us?

AG: Nicely sidestepped. Em, yeah, it’s Easter, so I thought a religious example would go down like … um … a bunny on another bunny. I’ll preface the analogy by mentioning that hardboiled is about toughness and noir is about pain. Consequently my analogy was this: the Crucifixion is noir and the Resurrection hardboiled.

SDB: The crowd reaction was wonderful, wasn’t it? It was if they’d just watched a clown get hit by a car. Many groans, a little nervous laughter.

AG: Hard to remember exactly, but I do recall Ken Bruen being impressed. And I thought he was a good Catholic.

SDB: Of all the things you saw in Philadelphia, then Houston, which strike you as the most noir?

AG: In Philly, David Goodis’s house. In Houston, Ken Bruen reading from ‘Her Last Call To Louis MacNeice’ at 4 in the morning.

SDB: (Readers may notice that Al just used single quotes to denote the title of a novel. Poor bastard still thinks he’s in Scotland.) Well, you have about 17 hours left here in the U.S. Anything special you want to do before you leave?

AG: I’d like to walk down North Broad at three in the morning shouting, “My pockets are stuffed full of money and cocaine, dipshits.” Yeah, I know, I’m only 5’ 8” and crap at fighting, but the Jersey Crew gave me a Louisville Slugger and I need to check it out. If I survive N. Broad, I’d like to hit the Navy Yard and steal one of those remaindered battleships they have lying around. And I’d really like to find the immigration officer who put on his surgical gloves and said, “Come with me, sir. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

Houston Updates Soon...

My apologies for the delay in posting an entry about "Noir Night" in Houston. But it is Holy Saturday. And even Christ needed three days to get his shit together.

So tomorrow: a live interview! With Allan "Sunshine" Guthrie!

And soon after: The Houston Report, starring Ken Bruen, Jason Starr, J.D. Rhoades, Sunshine, and a cast of wild Texan characters.

Forecast for Philly: Sunshine!

Today, Palm Sunday, is gray and slightly chilly here in the City of Brotherly Love. Which is absolutely perfect, because tomorrow marks the arrival of Allan "Sunshine" Guthrie, author of Two-Way Split and Kiss Her Goodbye, commissioning editor at PointBlank Press, creator of Noir Originals, backup horn player in the Average White Band, and by all accounts, the hardest workin' man in noir.

Sunshine will be making his first U.S. tour this week, with stops in Philadelphia and Houston (for "Noir Night" with Ken Bruen, Jason Starr, J.D. Rhoades and Your Humble Blogger.) Events on the docket may include:

* a night with the Jersey Crew

* a pilgrimage to the David Goodis House in North Philly

* Bible study

* Sunshine raiding my book collection, thinking he'll find all kinds of noir gems, but hah hah, the joke's on him, all I actually read are Harlequinn-style romances

* Sunshine trying to sleep in a house with two crazy toddlers (again, the joke's on him)

* Trying to keep our heads above the rivers of Jameson surely to be flowing through the streets of Houston

* Strippers, fireworks, more Bible study

And much, much more.

I'm going to try to document as much of the action as possible this coming week. Taking a cue from Aldo "El Jefe" Calcagno, I'll be snapping some digital photos of Sunshine and the noirists we'll be hanging with this week (Charlie Stella, Dave White, Pat Lambe, Ken, Jason, J.D.... and God knows who else). There will also be a "live" blog interview with Sunshine himself, plus maybe another surprise or two.

This Week in WTF... Plus So Much More!

Busy week at the City Paper. First, in my editor's letter, I confess to murdering my high school pal Bob Wilkowski, sit down for burgers with zombie master Brian Keene, and applaud nosy grandparents everywhere.

And that's not all.

We also announced the winners of our 19th annual writing contest, which was guest judged by Michael Swanwick, Sarah Dunn, and the Pope of Galway Bay himself, Ken Bruen (on tour now at finer cities everywhere).

But wait... there's more...

Finally, there's my quick look at Sin-A-Rama: Sex Sleaze Paperbacks of the Sixties, which reveals how much money guys like Robert Silverberg, Lawrence Block and Donald Westlake made knocking out whack-off novels.

Take a look. Act now, and I'll even throw in a set of Ginsu knives. Cuts through a tomato as easy as a can. (Or something like that.)

Secret Dead Blog Interview: Ken Bruen

To mark the start of Ken Bruen U.S. Tour 2005: The Boyo Is Back (black concert t-shirts available in S, M and XXL only; tour co-sponsored by Jameson and Average White Band), the Pope of Galway Bay agreed to sit down with me and gab about the art of writing.

Okay, okay. He didn't exactly "sit down" with me. It was an e-mail exchange. And we did this back in... geez, October?

And since we're on this "being perfectly honest" kick, these are outtakes from a Bruen interview I did for Mystery Scene ("Through the Looking Glass"), which is just out, and available at fine mystery bookshops everywhere.

But these nuggets of Bruen wisdom were too good to waste.



Secret Dead Blog: I notice you don't do chapter numbers—just blank space. Is this because those seem artificial? Have editors tried to force 'em on you?

Ken Bruen: Yes, editors have tried to get me to do chapter numbers and all sorts of other shit, too, but no deal. It’s the way it looks to me. The actual layout of a book is vital. I never let them fuck with that. Or the whole set up of the book.

SDB: What else have editors tried to force on you? And early on in your career, when you were just starting out, what gave you the courage to stick to your guns?

KB: Editors tried to get me to fill out descriptive passages, like scenery. I said I don’t do scenery. And to tone down the violence and language. I said… no. I felt the day would come and the books would be of their time so I wouldn’t compromise.

The other directive was: write a best seller. Yeah right, as if I was deliberately thinking, must be sure not to write a book that sells.

SDB: What, do they think writers sit and around and say, “Hmm, how can I be artsy and piss off readers?”

KB: A pharmacist friend of mine was here last night, drinking Jameson. He stares at me, says, Ken, the deal with you and Metaphysics is, you’ve been through the looking glass and came back to look at us, we’re not entirely comfortable with “the look.” Deep or Irish bullshit?

SDB: Do you ever censor yourself? I mean, have you ever written a scene that's so horrified you that you threw it right into the fireplace? Is there such a thing as being "too" noir?

KB: No, I never toned down a scene. I’ve dumped them cos they were badly written, though. When I submitted London Boulevard, I was concerned that the violence was very raw. And the publisher said: the book is not violent enough!

No, noir can never be noir enough, but I hate the gore in many mystery novels—full on scenes of minute descriptions of skinning or cannibalism. I don’t think that’s noir. It’s pure sensationalism… and wasted space. Less is more and suggestion is almost more horrific. Set the scene and let the reader draw the horrible implication—works so much better. So the reader goes, what the hell, did he just?…to almost slide it past. Almost.

SDB: Do you ever teach writing?

KB: Yes, once a year I give a lecture at the University… love that gig. I strut the stage for two hours and then hit the student bar for pints and banter. I have a ball, even though I don’t believe you can teach writing. You can teach technique, give encouragement, but they have to want it like air.

SDB: That said, what are three essential things aspiring writers should know?

KB: 3 rules that I lay down…

1. Write every day. I wrote on the day of my Dad’s funeral.

2. One page a day and in a year, you have 365 pages. The editing we can do after and see about quality.

3. Don’t talk about the plot, don’t talk about the story—that’s for after you’re done. Pubs in Ireland are full of would-be writers who talk a book away every night.

SDB: Do all of your titles come first? And once you have one, is that it? Ever change them?

KB: I think the titles come first. No, I never, never change titles. And God knows, they’ve tried. But nope, won’t do it.

SDB: It’s been said that hardboiled fiction has a limited audience, while suspense thrillers seem to do monster business. Is it smart to try to think of what we do as “suspense thrillers” more than crime novels? Do labels ultimately matter?

KB: If you can write your books to your own satisfaction and have them cross over to thriller market, all the better. I’m not precious about being noir, or whatever. I just want to sell books. I’ve had all sorts of labels—from the very limiting “caper” tag to procedural to that strange beast… “literary crime.”

The best solution seems to be to include, humour, tension, noir and suspense, and thus get the whole shebang—just as long as I don’t get tagged soft boiled or cozy, I’m easy.

This Week in WTF...

Got a few minutes (and brain cells) to kill? My City Paper column this week is all about global warming, Justin Guarini, and punishment from God.

Say Hello to Goodbye

See this beaut of a paperback?



Today's the official street date (at least, it is in my mind) for this sweet slab of Scottish sleaze, and if you haven't already ordered/picked up/stole a copy from your favorite bookseller, now's the time.

No, really.

Stop reading and go order.

Right now.

My three-year-old son Parker can already identify the name of the book by the snazzy Chuck Pyle cover. Pretty soon, all of his friends will be hearing about Allan "Sunshine" Guthrie's Kiss Her Goodbye -- especially the infamous "snorkel" scene -- and I suspect that it'll be quite the hit among the toddler set.

You want three-year-olds to be hep to the future of noir fiction before you?

Yeah, that's what I thought.

That's Not Writing, That's Typing

One of Sarah Weinman's recent posts about rummaging through old high school writings sent me back to my own archives. There, I found a disturbing number of short-shorts, written during typing class.

I'd taken typing my senior year at North Catholic as a blow-off course. (Don't look at me that way. I had a ton of AP courses. Give a brother a chance to kick back, yo.) Even then, at 17, I was already a fairly fast typist. So fast, I often whipped through the assignments with minutes to spare. Which was just enough time to write a quick burst of a horror or crime story. Why let all of that typewriter ribbon and scrap paper go to waste, right?

Here's a sampling of some of these... uh, gems.

NICE, SOFT, SQUISHY THINGS, PART 2
When R.J. reached inside the microwave, the thing grabbed him. R.J. screamed for help, but there was no help to be found. Both of his parents were away on a trip to the National Keilbasa and Polka Music Convention in Naglansk, Poland. He was beat. The thing was nice, soft and squishy, and it was starting to pull him in.

Then R.J. spied the butcher knife on the counter. He had been making lunch and had been using that very knife. He stretched and grabbed it, by the blade, flipped it in the air, and caught it by the handle. Then R.J., high school senior, turned to face the monster.

R.J. sliced and diced at the formless mass inside of the microwave. He tried to be careful not to hurt his hand, but he couldn’t see it. He plunged the blade again, and again, and again. He sliced, diced, hacked, skewed, and shaved at it. Then he fainted back.

A few minutes later, he woke up. There was nothing on his hand. But his hand was sliced apart, and he was bleeding to death. He could barely make out fingers.

Then he looked up at the ceiling.

The nice, soft, squishy thing unattached itself from its hiding spot and suctioned its slimy mass to R.J.’s eyeballs and nose.

But the convention in Poland was good anyway, commented R.J.’s parents later.

Editor's Note: Thank God my guidance counselor didn't find this one. And yes, there was a "Nice, Soft Squishy Things Part 1."


CLARK’S LAW PART ONE: THE VIGILANTE
The car sped down the avenue. Clark was riding shotgun. As soon as the boy came into his rifle view, his finger bore down on the trigger repeatedly. The bullets ripped into the boy’s body, and blood exploded onto the sidewalk. The boy did an ungraceful flip and smashed his head on the concrete.

“We got ‘em, Jay,” said Clark with a rare smile.

“That’s good.” Jay’s voice was non-committal. He wasn’t actually sure he approved of this whole sordid mess.

Suddenly, Clark noticed that the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge was up a mile in front of them. “Kay—go over to the bridge.”

Kay protested. “My name’s not Kay, it’s Jay.”

“Sorry.”

Jay sped towards the bridge. Soon they were there. They both got out and stood on the railing. Then Clark put the rifle nozzle into Jay’s mouth.

“You’re a material witness, Jay,” Clark said calmly.

And then his finger pumped the trigger.

“Oh, but you’re beat,” said the still-alive Jay. “Luckily, I have a metal skull cap.” Jay reached inside his mouth and produced a shiny bullet.

And then he threw Clark off the bridge.

Editor's Note: Like how I turned a typo (Kay/Jay) into a completely meaningless bit of dialogue? This was typing class circa 1988, folks. No backspace delete. No White-Out. And I don't know why I used to think rifles had "nozzles."


DIAL “R” FOR…
The telephone rested on the desk, but something moved inside the receiver. It was as if the phone had come to life. But no human noticed this at the time.

Clark moved silently into the office. Damn, he thought. He was have to call the exterminator again. The stupid rats had invaded the candy machine, and he was forced to toss away all of the merchandise. Clark’s sweaty palm gripped the phone receiver and put it to his head.

The rat inside jumped out, scared, and sank its vile teeth into Clark’s lip and chin. There was blood everywhere.

Editor's Note: "Blood everywhere" seems to be running theme in my early fiction.


EVIL MONSTERS FROM THE SUBURBS OF HELL
They drove Yugos. That was the thing that got on Warner’s nerves. They went tooling around in those compact pieces of garbage, killing the elderly and sucking the blood from the young children. But it was the new martial law. Ever since the President had sold his soul to the devil, his vicious offspring had free reign in all American cities.

One stopped him on the way to work, calling out from the car window. “Hey! Hey, human!”

Warner turned to greet a faceful of battery acid. It stung at his eyes and he was hospitalized for eight weeks, but no police action could be taken. He decided it was time for a change.

Editor's Note: Looking back, I'm not sure the bit about the President selling his soul to the devil is too far off the mark.

Presidents Who Remind Me of Sex: A Compilation

A while back, I was at a diner. There was a paper placemat with all of the U.S. presidents on them. I made an alarming discovery.

James K. Polk
Millard Fillmore
Franklin Pierce
Andrew Johnson
Chester Arthur
Woodrow Wilson
Warren Harding
Richard (“Dick”) Nixon
George H. W. Bush
Bill Clinton
George W. Bush

This Week in WTF...

In my City Paper column this week I channel the ghost of Bill Hicks, reveal my inner geek, and even defend alternative rock. Sort of.

Funk Soul Brother Check It Out Now

Today I attended a day-long seminar on "effective management." Which is a good thing, because until this morning, my idea of "effective management" involved a pair of brass knucks and an electric cattle prod. (Not one of those wimpy 20,00--volt models, either. I'm talking 150,000 volts of sheer motivation.)

So I picked up a few tips -- none of them involving electricity -- and also shot some clandestine footage of the session.

What I'm going to need you to do is go ahead and enjoy. Yeah, that would be great.